


Doctor's Orders

by within_a_dream



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Forced to live out darkest fantasies, Fuck Or Die, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-14 14:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16042517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/pseuds/within_a_dream
Summary: Kent wakes up in a room with Chandler and an unexpected intruder





	Doctor's Orders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Additional warnings in endnotes

When Kent woke up, his head ached. He spent a few sluggish moments fishing through his mind to think of what he'd done to spark this before he realized that he was naked, and sprawled out on a dingy carpet that he didn't recognize. He took stock of the room (as best he could without moving his head and making the pain worse) – queen-size bed right in front of his nose, shades pulled tight across the window, beige walls, an armchair with a blurry form sitting in it. A hotel room, maybe?

"Oh, Emerson, you've joined us! Wonderful," the blur said.

Kent squinted up at the voice, the light in the room making his headache worse. "Dr. Beckett?" He shook his head, hoping this was just a very strange dream. But when his eyes focused, his psychologist was still sitting on the armchair across from him, a gun in her hand. Even then, Kent was half-sure it was a dream, some reflection of a subconscious fear. Dr. Beckett would have no idea how to get a handgun—she had a puppy of the month calendar up in her office, for God’s sake.

Then he heard the groans coming from the bed. He got up on his knees, ignoring the way it made his head spin, and his stomach dropped. Chandler was handcuffed to the bedframe, just as naked as Kent, arms stretched out and blood dripping from his nose.

“Thank God you’re all right,” he said as soon as he met Kent’s eyes, words falling out in a rush.

“‘All right’ is debatable, sir.”

“Not dead, then,” Chandler conceded with a faint smile, and Kent realized how he must have looked before he came to.

“I did tell you I wouldn’t kill my patient,” Dr. Beckett said.

“You had no qualms about kidnapping him.”

“It’s part of the next step in our therapeutic process.” She smiled at Kent, the same smile as when she’d taught him breathing exercises to use when his anger got the better of him. It was unsettling, just how normal she looked. “I knew Emerson wouldn’t tell you how he felt on his own, so I decided to nudge things along.”

“What do you mean?” Kent knew exactly what she meant. He could remember every illicit fantasy he’d told her, every thought about Chandler he’d spilled out at her urging.

Dr. Beckett smiled, and pressed a button on the recorder next to her.

Kent’s voice filled the room.

"When he came into the station with those bruises on his face, I was furious. I wanted to find whoever had hit him and kill them, and then mark him up so that everyone could see he was mine." Kent thought he might be sick, listening to his thoughts laid bare to Chandler. He hadn't been meant to hear this, Kent had just wanted to exorcise the fantasies that haunted him - and there wasn't any going back now. He wanted to beg forgiveness. He wanted to die, right there on the grubby motel carpet, to keep from ever seeing Chandler again. He wanted Chandler to say something, anything, to disrupt the staticky recitation coming from Dr. Beckett's recorder.

She fast-forwarded.

"Sometimes I see him sitting in his office, tie tightened and shirt buttoned all the way up, and I want to go in there and make a mess. Ride him until his clothes are too wrinkled to smooth out, come on his chest and stain his tie," the recording of Kent said.

Kent in the here and now wished even more that he could fade into the floor. He'd only shared that because Dr. Beckett had prodded him until he'd told her exactly what was distracting him at work. 'Call me Julia,' she'd said, and he was glad now that he'd never managed that, because it was easier to endure this as an attack from his doctor than as that of a friend. It was still a blow, that she'd been recording his darkest secrets and waiting for a chance to share them. It had always been his burden to bear, this idiotic crush that he knew Chandler didn't reciprocate, the surges of jealousy that threatened to overcome him.

Another skip forward, and Dr. Beckett's voice played. "Have you ever thought of telling him, Emerson?"

"Never," the recorded Kent replied. "I'd rather die."

Dr. Beckett stopped the recording. “You see why this was necessary. No matter what I did, Emerson was a hopeless case, so I decided to nudge things along.”

Kent suddenly had a very clear idea of what the two of them were doing in a hotel room without their clothes. “I don’t want this.”

“That’s not what you said during our appointments.” She waved the recorder in his direction. “I’m doing this for your own good, Emerson.”

Kent scrambled for a way to talk her out of this. “Wouldn’t it be better to let me take this at my own pace? Start with a date at a coffee shop--”

“Stop talking!” For a moment, Beckett’s professional demeanor slipped, and for the first time, Kent saw someone who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him if he didn’t follow her orders. Then she plastered a sickly-sweet smile back across her face. “If I left you to ‘take things at your own pace’, you’d still be mooning after Joseph years from now. We’re going to finish this today. I’ve given him a bit of something to take the edge off, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

A little something...that put Chandler’s dazed expression in a new light. Kent prayed it wouldn’t hurt Chandler, or interact badly with alcohol, or--

“Now, go on,” Beckett said, interrupting his racing thoughts. “I know you’ve done this before.” She gestured to the bed with the barrel of her gun.

Kent sat on the edge of the bed, resisting the urge to lick his thumb and wipe the blood from Chandler’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

“You can’t blame yourself for attracting someone like this,” Chandler said, voice low enough that Beckett couldn’t hear him.

Kent didn’t blame himself for the fact that his therapist had turned out to be a bloody lunatic, he blamed himself for trusting anyone besides himself with his dreams about Chandler. But he couldn’t very well tell Chandler that, so he made a weak attempt at a smile and said, “What do you want me to do? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I trust you,” Chandler said in reply.

Even here, with Chandler tied up and a gun pointed at both of them, even with the slur to his words and unfocused eyes, that made Kent’s heart skip a beat. He whispered another apology, and pressed his lips to Chandler’s.

Chandler tasted like blood. Kent hated how much that turned him on, the tang of iron spreading across his tongue as he kissed him. Chandler wasn’t a good kisser—he was horrible, to be frank, tight-lipped at first and then sloppy when he realized he should be kissing back. It still got Kent half-hard.

He tried to keep from brushing his cock against Chandler, but Chandler still noticed, of course he did.

“It’s all right,” he said, attempting a smile. “We have to, don’t we? I don’t blame you.”

That only made it worse, Chandler comforting Kent while Kent was assaulting him. _You should_ , he wanted to say, but driving Chandler to ease his self-loathing would make this worse yet. Instead, he kissed him again, hoping he was giving that bitch of a doctor what she wanted.

It seemed not, because she clicked her tongue and called out, “Emerson, that looks much too gentle for what you told me you wanted from Joseph.”

Kent felt the blood drain from his face. Chandler winced, before he schooled his face back to blank. And he’d only heard what little Beckett had shared with them; how much more afraid would he be if he’d heard all of Kent’s fantasies?

“Are you--”

Chandler cut him off. “Stop asking if I’m all right and do it, Kent.” He took a breath and then continued, “We don’t have a choice here.”

It wasn’t fair, was it, to make Chandler give his consent to this? It was Kent’s hard-on that had gotten them into this mess, and it wasn’t fair to try and slough off some of his guilt by asking Chandler to tell him it was all right.

“I am so sorry for all of this,” he said instead, unable to keep from one last apology. Then he slapped Chandler across the face.

Chandler let the blow force his face to the side, not even trying to avoid it. Even here, even like this, the sight of his handprint red on Chandler’s cheek made Kent even harder.

Chandler’s cock was still soft, and his face was blank. That should have halted Kent’s hand. He’d never wanted an unwilling partner. (He wouldn’t think about how part of him wanted to see Chandler afraid, crying, begging.) Instead, Kent slapped him again, leaving a matching handprint on the other side of his face. Then he pressed his lips to the warm skin, trailing a string of kisses back to Chandler’s lips.

He returned Kent’s kiss, more confident this time. Kent nipped at his lip, stopping when Chandler gasped.

“It’s split,” he murmured.

Beckett had done a number on him. Kent whispered another apology (sorry, sorry, I’ll do my best to keep from hurting you while I’m raping you) and directed his kisses to Chandler’s neck.

Chandler didn’t seem actively repulsed by this, at least. He even made noises that sounded a bit like pleasure when Kent began sucking a mark where his neck met his shoulder. Kent reached a hand down to Chandler’s cock, and felt a perverse sense of satisfaction to find it was getting stiff. He tightened his hand around Chandler’s cock just as he sunk his teeth into Chandler’s shoulder.

Kent felt Chandler tense beneath him, and the guilt he’d shoved aside returned to gnaw at his gut. He’d forgotten himself. He pressed a kiss to the bite mark by way of apology, then moved down the bed.

Beckett would want him to ride Chandler. It would be easier in some ways to fuck him, at least Chandler wouldn’t need to be hard for that, but Kent (damn it all) knew what he wanted and had told Beckett all about it. This would run less of a risk of hurting Chandler, too—Kent was nearly sure he’d never slept with _anyone_ , much less been fucked by a man.

All right, he would get this over with. Start with a blowjob—easy enough. Kent was damn good at giving head, and better yet, it was easy to lose himself in the task. A lick to the tip of Chandler’s cock, first--he was still soft, but Kent could fix that. Then he reached a hand up to toy with Chandler’s balls, taking a bitter satisfaction in the pleased noise Chandler made.

He wouldn’t have tied Chandler up, given the choice. Kent liked to feel his partner’s hands in his hair, and to let them guide him. But he’d been with men who liked to be bound, and it was easy enough to pretend that this was Chandler’s choice.

It got easier when Chandler bucked up into his mouth, hissing, “ _Fuck_ , Kent!”

“Easy there,” Kent whispered. He almost laughed, swallowing down a hysterical giggle at how Beckett really had made all of his dreams come true.

Chandler got hard quickly, with Kent sucking at the head of his cock and licking along the shaft. He filled Kent’s mouth pleasantly, making his jaw ache. Kent could happily have spent hours like this, if it weren’t for the gun pointed at his head. He would have liked to explore, to find out what Chandler liked. But as it was, he needed to move this along. Kent relaxed his throat and slid his mouth down to the base of Chandler’s cock.

“Fuck!” Chandler said again, hips trembling with the effort of holding still. It did something to Kent, hearing his clean-cut DI lose his composure. It meant something, too, that Chandler was enjoying himself.

“We’ll all regret it if you finish him off like that, Emerson.”

Beckett’s voice yanked Kent back to the reality of the situation. He pulled  back, eyes drawn to a bottle of lube on the nightstand. Beckett really had come prepared for everything, hadn’t she?

“You’ll have to fuck me,” he said to Chandler, voice low. “But I’ll do all the work, don’t worry.” He reached for the lube.

Chandler blanched. “Are there condoms?” His voice wavered, and Kent berated himself for not realizing. Of course Chandler wouldn’t be comfortable going bareback.

He looked to Beckett, who shook her head.

“That isn’t what you want, is it, Emerson?”

“I don’t want to hurt him!” Kent snapped. Beckett stroked her thumb over the handgun’s safety, and Kent took her hint to shut up.

Chandler’s breathing was shaky. Kent put a hand to his face and said, “We can get through this, all right? Just shut your eyes and let me do this.”

“Yes, sir,” Chandler replied, letting out a cold and distant laugh. Kent pushed away just how afraid Chandler’s reaction had made him--they just needed to get this over with. It would all be fine afterwards.

“That’s the spirit. This will be cold,” Kent warned, squirting lube into his palm. He smoothed it over Chandler’s cock, and then forced a perfunctory few fingers inside himself. No need to work himself open properly--the faster they got through this the better, and maybe he deserved the pain.

It took a few strokes to get Chandler hard again after his panic, but only a few. Then Kent slid down onto Chandler’s cock, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He might have underestimated how much lube was needed, but he didn’t need Chandler worrying about him. _God_ , he was big, though. Or maybe it had just been too long since Kent had been fucked with anything other than his fingers. But the ache soon faded, replaced by a swelling pleasure he hadn’t felt in too long.

Then there was silence, aside from the slick slide of Chandler’s cock in his ass and the slap of skin against skin. Kent just needed to get Chandler off. He wouldn’t think about what would happen next, and he wouldn’t enjoy this. He wouldn’t enjoy how full Chandler made him feel, how the edge of pain made the moments when Chandler’s cock brushed his prostate so much better.  He wouldn’t—fuck, he was so turned on right now.

A look at Chandler’s face dispelled some of that. Kent had imagined that he might cry (and Kent might have enjoyed that, as much as he hated to admit it). Kent would have cried in his place ( _was_ crying, he realized, tears sliding down his cheeks unnoticed) , but he was always too weepy for his own good. Chandler had his eyes shut, and his face was blank. It was like fucking a sleeping man. He didn’t think Chandler would get off like this, but frankly that was the least of their worries. Beckett seemed to be satisfied for now, at least. She was still watching them from the chair, stock-still with a smile on her face. Kent would have expected her to have her hand up her skirt at least, but no, just watching. He’d be tempted to ask what the hell she was getting out of this, if she didn’t still have her finger on the trigger.

There was no warning before the door burst open. Beckett lunged for the people streaming into the room, but one of them had her pinned to the floor  before she could even level her gun at him.

Kent froze. It took a moment before he realized he could move, and more time than it should have to get off of Chandler. That left him naked, half-hard, and sick to his stomach, surrounded by people who'd soon see he was just as much to blame here as the woman they had cuffed.  Paramedics began filtering into the room now that Beckett was subdued, and Kent was police, he knew why it was necessary, but it was hard to remember that when there were a dozen people milling around watching the aftermath of the worst day of his life.

For his part, Chandler didn’t move a muscle until one of the paramedics tapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re all right,” she said. “I’m going to untie you now.”

“Right,” Chandler replied, sounding dazed. He stared off into the distance, avoiding looking at Kent (although whether that was his intention or an accidental consequence, Kent couldn’t say).

Another paramedic asked Kent, “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Kent said, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Perfectly fine. Just missing my clothes.” Chandler was the one with the bruises, and the blood, and the angry red marks around his wrists. Nothing at all had been done to Kent.

The man checked him over anyway, then laid a blanket over his shoulders. “We’ll be taking you to hospital, just to be sure.”

It seemed Kent had been mistaken about avoiding his coworkers—Miles was waiting outside when he was led to the ambulance.

“They wouldn’t let me storm the castle with them, but I told the higher-ups that I didn’t care if they fired me, I was going to be here when you came out.” Miles reached out to pat Kent on the shoulder, but then apparently thought better of it. “Are you all right? Is Chandler--”

“Not dead or missing parts,” Kent said with a little bit of a smile,  hoping Miles couldn’t tell how hollow it was. “Listen, you should ride with Chandler. He needs you more than I do.” And Kent couldn’t bear to spend the ambulance ride hiding what he’d done from Miles.

Miles nodded. He looked like he might have said more, but then Chandler ducked out of the motel, distracting him and allowing Kent to slip into the ambulance.

His time in the hospital passed by in a fluorescent-lit blur—blood draws, blood pressure, on and on and on, and him still half-hard and incredibly thankful that the nurses ignored it. Then came his statement to the police, which he wrote down mindlessly, thinking all the while about how disgusted the officer must be with him. But he couldn’t lie, and he deserved whatever judgment the others drew.

And then he was home, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom with nothing to distract himself from what he’d done. He couldn’t stop thinking about Chandler’s face when Kent had forced himself on him. Worse, he couldn’t get the image of Chandler tied up, blood smeared across his face and fear in his eyes, out of his head. At least there was no one in his bedroom to see his erection. He took himself in hand, trying desperately to think of anything but the events of that day, but he drifted  back to Chandler, again and again. Eventually, he gave up, letting himself imagine Chandler naked on his back without cuffs around his wrists or a gun pointed at them, Chandler kissing him and moaning as Kent scratched at his chest and bit his shoulder.

Kent  came after a few strokes, and lay back with his come cooling on his skin and shame coiling in his gut.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains nonconsensual drugging, abuse by a therapist, and Kent's metric fucktons of guilt


End file.
